


Our Bodies Fly Apart

by lizfu



Series: Unfinished Fic [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Cyborgs, Gen, One day I will learn to finish things, Sassy Sam, i am bullshitting my way through cybernetics and science, loss of body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizfu/pseuds/lizfu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's body is destroyed but his mind lives on.  As a cyborg, he's learning to adjust to a new reality and a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Bodies Fly Apart

**Author's Note:**

> I started this some time in 2013 as a one shot to get me in the mood to write a much longer piece, but life happened and this fell to the wayside. In this universe, the human experience can be enhanced through technology, life can persist beyond the duration of body, angels are hivemind nanites, and demons are essentially computer viruses. I blame Masamune Shirow, naturally.
> 
> I would like to return to this fic (which is taking on a life of its own) or this 'verse one day, but I don't see it happening in the foreseeable future.

The sensation of touch is a kiss that ghosts along the surface of the metal plating constituting Sam's skin. An intricate system of fiber optics sends a barrage of sensory information to his central processor, which in turn interprets and relays this information to his brain. His hand - large, complex with all its tiny and nimble components, prehensile - presses against the stone wall, receptors picking up its texture, the temperature from the heat of the sun on its surface, the composition of each brick his hand comes in contact with; the processor analyzes and compacts all of this into signal to the corresponding parts of the brain, which informs him that the wall is rough, 74 degrees Fahrenheit, and made up of a concrete composite. At the same time, he swears he can feel a sensation of warmth and roughness where his fingertips would have once trailed against the wall, tracing the grooves between the bricks.

"Your brain is still associating with your old body image," the therapist informed him during one of his first sessions. "Once it's created a new cortical homunculus, this problem should no longer exist."

"Dude, you have phantom limb," his brother, Dean, once irreverently told him with fascinated glee. "Only it's your entire body!"

Sam does not see any amusement in this. Had he facial features, he would convey his displeasure with a stern glare, his brow furrowing, and a gentle downward tug of his lips. (He "feels" this movement on his faceplate, though his eyes have been replaced by four shining red optics and he has no mouth.)

He fears simultaneously that these sensations will never stop and that they'll stop entirely once he adjusts to his new body. His humanity is tethered to the sensation of touch and the emotional responses elicited from it. The smoothness of leather as he settles in is home and familiarity, the interior of the refitted 1967 Impala that once belonged to their father and now belongs to Dean - which Sam can no longer ride in because it cannot bear his weight. Soft coarse fibers slipping through his fingers remind him of Jess' hair and contentment and a peace that Sam never knew before her. (Grief sits heavy in his center, where his heart once was.) Dean's hands should be rough with calluses but gentle with intent. When he touches Sam, the sensation should identify him as "brother" - not the slightly elevated body temperature that may indicate an oncoming fever; the fingerprints in the national database and the files associated with them; the measure of the pulse, relaxed and steady, as a it beats a rhythm of life felt in his thumb.

His emotions are dulled without touch, detaching him from his own environment, even with the sensory relays. Constant information scrolls across a HUD, the world broken down into facts and numbers with no real physical or emotional connection. One day, he fears that is all the world will be to him.

.

The neighbors keep their distance, fearful of this new Sam Winchester, nonhuman and entirely machine as he lumbers in slow, measured strides always just behind his brother. His aural sensors pick up the heavy click of doors pulled shut, the clatter of blinds drawn down, the quiet yet alert tones of mothers telling their children not to stare even as they can't take their own eyes off of him. Based on the distances of the sources and where he forces his attention, these sounds dial down to unpleasant background noise as he focuses on Dean, who talks about his day as they make their way to Dean's apartment. The uncomfortable sensation of being watched pricks the back of his neck.

Sam lived separately from Dean - since Dean left for the army years ago and Sam came to the city years later, armed with a JD, an admission to the bar, and a fiancee. His doctors and therapist suggested that Sam move in with him - for emotional support - and Dean's division chief insisted on it - for public safety. Full-body replacement cyborgs of Sam's variety are still distrusted in society, collective public memory haunted by past incidents of cyborg psychological meltdowns. The law requires therapy sessions for a minimum of two years (with an evaluation every six months) or until the cyborg is deemed sound of mind. So Sam lives once again with his brother in a tiny apartment, taking up a corner in a small room Dean has been using for storage. He hopes this will be enough to convince his therapist that he's doing better when the first evaluation rolls around.

.

Most businesses refuse employment until completion of the mandatory therapy. By the good grace of the District Attorney and Sam's shining record, Sam is still allowed to work, but he is not allowed to practice law.

One of the benefits to his cybernetic body is the built-in wireless connection. He's able to access information and databases almost instantly.

His bosses set him to task researching.

"I'm a library with legs" Sam confides to his therapist. "A walking database."

.

"So, you can watch porn anywhere," Dean quips one night at dinner.

Dean's the only one eating. Sam kneels on the floor beside the coffee table crowded cartons of takeout and bottles of beer, among the usual refuse of Dean's bachelor lifestyle: electronics, thumb drives, paperwork, old manilla folders overflowing with more paperwork, empty gun clips, piles of mail, the odd well-worn paperbacks (Vonnegut, McCarthy, Edlund). Sam feels his phantom nose wrinkle with disgust and his phantom lips twist in a grimace. The mess is contained to the coffee table in loosely organized stacks that once resembles neat piles; it was a lot worse when he first moved in.

"I don't watch porn," Sam replies. His vocals are finely tuned to match the pitch, tone, and frequency of his human voice, expressing in this instance exasperation and suffering. It has a tinny quality, though, like he's talking through a cell phone. The sound engineers informed him not much could be done about this.

"But you could." Dean winks and grins around a mouthful of General Tso. Sam wishes he could gag. "And no one would ever know."

"And that is where you and I differ."

"I bet you're bitchfacing at me right now - phantom bitchfacing."

Sam's four optics rotate. "Jerk."

.

"I shoulda been there," Dean confesses at the end of his fifth beer. He stares into the empty bottle, maudlin and heavy-eyed with drink and weariness, glassy with the emotions he vehemently denies. "Shoulda been there at the courthouse, instead of inna stupid meeting." The meeting had been with the security detail for a visiting diplomat, Dean's partner, Benny, had told Sam weeks later. "We told 'em to beef up security for you guys. Big important case against one of Alastair's men - you needed me there. I woulda spotted that bomber a block away, took him out before he reached the steps."

"There's nothing you could have done." It's the only thing to say. One of Sam's optics catches the look Dean throws at him when Dean thinks his attention is occupied elsewhere: the deep crease of his brow, the sharp downward pull of his lips as his jaw clenches tightly at his molars, his eyes suddenly hard and moist as tears collect in the ducts. Anger at himself, at his job. His drinking pattern in the past month alone has become more regular; most nights, he drinks until he's passed out, barely waking up in time for work, which he grumbles about more. Sam thinks - quite often - that he's not the only one who needs therapy sessions.

A dry laugh escapes Dean's lips, humorless. "I coulda shielded you, Sammy."

.

Jess' eyes are wide and green as she stares up at him from where she lays stretched out on the picnic blanket, her gold mane fanned around her head like an explosion and her lips quirked charmingly in a full smile that makes his heart hammer in his chest like it's going to burst as he lays himself beside her, a hand running briefly, flirtatiously, down the side of her white dress with the red flowers that bloom, bloom, bloom and sticks to her skin with the sweat of a hot day when her chest heaves with a chuckle and she squirms, ticklish under his touch until she's crying. Red stains the inside of her mouth and her teeth and Sam leans down to kiss her, tasting bitter copper.

Her eyes never move from the sky.

"Sam," she whispers.

His body flies apart.

.

The vocal modulator amplifies Sam's screams. He doesn't even realize how loud they are until Dean's stumbling in his room, gun drawn and pointed at his corner. Sam's HUD flares to life in red for danger: details and diagrams assessing the threat of the gun, analyzing the vulnerabilities on Dean's body, and pulling up his own schematics and a structural integrity report. It's overwhelming, and Sam doesn't know what's happening even as his body moves on its own, shifting to a new position. It must be threatening because Dean's stance tightens and his gun raises a fraction higher, aimed at what sensors are telling Sam is the casing of his power core. One clip and he'd be disabled permanently, all systems shutting down and his brain dying almost instantly. Unless the bullets in the gun are armor-piercing - then one is all it takes.

"Sammy," Dean throws out in a cautious growl.

Sam grapples with his central processor, inputting orders into the defense system he didn't think he would ever use until his body is his own again, slumping momentarily. His HUD flickers until its text is nominal blue once more and the readouts no longer focus of his brother. Dean relaxes marginally as well, gun lowered to the floor but both hands on it still ready for whatever can happen. 

"Dean." Something must have dislodged or loosened, because there is a slight scratchy quality to his voice. He pulls up the robotic clinic's site on one half of a split screen, scheduling an appointment to have it checked out as his optics continue to monitor his brother.

Dean relaxes further, thumb flicking over the safety of the gun before discards it on one of Sam's many unpacked boxes. It remains within reach, even as he slumps against a bookshelf. "What," he demands, "was that?"

A sensation rushes through Sam's faceplate - the weighty mixture of shame and embarrassment - and though his readings remain nominal, he swears his artificial body heats up. "A nightmare, Dean. I just had a nightmare."

Dean's features screw in an expression of disbelief. "Just a nightmare? JUST a nightmare? Goddamn, Sam, if that was a nightmare, I'd hate to see what happens when you have a meltdown!"

All four of Sam's optics instantly train on Dean, lenses narrowing as they zoom in. His HUD begins logging information - pointless information, he isn't even paying attention to any of it. "WHEN I have a meltdown?" The bass of his vocal configuration vibrates the walls with his anger. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean snorts, not even bothering to look ashamed of his slip. "You're heading down that road, Sam. You bottle everything up, act like it's all fucking hunky dory, peachy keen, like you've got this when obviously, you don't."

"Like you'd know what I'm going through! Screw you, Dean! I'm doing much better, but you wouldn't even know! You never ask! You just sit there, cracking jokes at my expense, like this - " He gestures to his body "- is normal! Like I'm not seeing a shrink four times a week! Like I'm not barred from practicing law or I can't even hold down a real job without special permission from an elected official! Like I can't walk down the street without every single person gawking at me and avoiding me because they think I'll meltdown at any time! All things considered, yeah, I am fine - I am fucking peachy!"

"You never talk about Jess!" Dean roars.

And isn't that a kick in the gut? Grief racks itself in Sam's chest and all he wants to do is scream and rage and tear apart Dean's bachelor pad. Then, Dean would be forced to disable him. Sam eyes the gun, wondering just how many bullets it would take. How much does his brother trust him? An entire clip of bullets for hesitancy and a stubbornness to let go. One armor-piercing round for mercy. It could all be over so easily.

His body could fly apart.

Instead, Sam disconnects his vocals and severs his optics. As his central processor raises an alarm for hardware malfunction, he inputs the override and powers everything down, until it's only him and essential life support systems. Everything goes completely black.

Sam feels like he's floating.

.

Sunlight pours through the window, and the cocoon Sam has wrapped himself in is suddenly too warm to remain asleep any longer. He awakens in stages, groaning and curling further into the blankets to escape the encroaching day, opening a bleary eye against the sun when sleep refuses to return, groaning again and turning from the light when the digital display of his bedside clock reads too soon (he has thirty minutes before the alarm). Untangling his long limbs from the sheets is a process made longer by his reluctance; the air in the room is cold, made colder by the absence of another body in bed. The muffled sound of the TV elsewhere tells him that Jess is already up and has started her day without him. The promise of coffee hangs in the air. If he can pull himself out of bed, he'll have time to make pancakes to go with Jess' coffee.

Pancakes are a wonderful motivator.

He stumbles into the living room within five minutes, yawning and stretching as he wanders to where Jess is seated on the sofa, a bowl of cereal balanced precariously on her knee as she watches the screen. "Mornin', babe," he murmurs as he kisses the top of her head.

She doesn't return the sentiment, instead nodding to the television. "Sam, you need to see this."

An image plays on the screen of a man being escorted by police out of a building, his hands cuffed together and his head down to avoid the cameras. A name flashes on the screen just as a reporter starts talking off camera. Sam sinks onto the sofa next to Jess, uttering a soft curse under his breath. It's one of Alastair's men - well, somebody Home Security suspected was one of Alastair's. Sam only knows because the Alastair case is one of the few things about his job that Dean will even talk to him about, and only because if anything were to come of it, the DA's office would be involved. Sam scans the background and sure enough, there are Dean and Benny, standing side by side, overseeing the scene with stern faces and folded arms. The corner of the footage reads "Live" and Sam curses again. 

"I need to get ready," he tells Jess apologetically. Pancakes will have to wait another time.

She kisses his cheek. Apology accepted. "Go," she urges, a corner of her lip twitching up.

It's going to be a long day.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all she wrote.


End file.
